


Refining Fire

by sivib



Series: Sound of Silence [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU Aperitif, Deaf Character, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sivib/pseuds/sivib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate telling of Season 1, episode 1, Aperitif.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend...

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in this fandom. I am in love with Will's fragile strength, and Lecter as tempter/Satan. He is not a nice man!
> 
> The work is complete, but in revision. Here's the first chapter. Please let me know if it works.
> 
> Thanks.

Chapter 1

The sun felt good on Will’s back.  There was a bit of a breeze, just enough to cool the sweat at his hairline and stir the leaves of the beech trees shading his house.  The pack lolled in the sun, panting gently in the late April warmth, sleeping or just basking.  Beneath Will’s hands, a carborator slowly took form, each greasy piece fitting together in a puzzle of engineering and combustion.  The table was scattered with bits of metal and oil, rags and tools, and felt firm and real beneath his arms.  A hint of smoke on the wind told him someone was barbecuing, and the scent of sunbaked grass brought visions of mowing.  It must be Saturday.  Or Sunday.  Will didn’t own a calendar.

The table was set out under a tall oak, its branches swaying and casting dappled patterns on the raw wood.  His work bench was just a plank of plywood set on a couple of sawhorses, his chair a bucket seat from an abandoned Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser he’d come across during a rambling walk a few nights ago.  The carburetor had come from there, too.  If he could make it functional, he could sell it to the scrap yard for a few bucks.  The house was paid for, but every little bit helped.  It wasn’t like he was working just now.  Nor would be in the future.  Just leaving for groceries was an effort, and Will was just too tired.  Plus, they wouldn’t let him bring his Sig into the store anymore.

He picked up another part and oiled it, rubbing off rust and dirt.  Tiny, the Rottweiler he’d picked up last month, looked up, ears perking.  Will followed her gaze, reaching for his sidearm and thumbing off the safety.  A moment later, a rabbit scampered out of the brush and Tiny took off after it, mouth moving and the air shuddering with her barks.  Will’s heart hammered, and his shoulders ached with tension.  He took a deep breath and set the Sig back down.  His hands were shaking, and when he tried to pick up the throttle lever he’d been cleaning, it slipped out of his fingers and tumbled to the ground.  He clenched his fists, and watched the huge dog race across the field, watched the rabbit dodge and jink and ultimately escape.  Slowly, hesitantly, he let the day sink into his bones again.

There was a bottle of Jack on the table.  He did not reach for it.  Just a dumb rabbit.  Nothing to worry about.  He was glad it got away.  As he watched, Tiny came loping back, grinning and panting.  She barked once, her wide mouth stretching and coming together, and Will reached out and scratched her behind her cropped ears.  His hands, still shaking a bit, said, _Good dog._   Hand to chin, and a snap.  Tiny’s tiny tail went crazy, and she barked again, then sank down to Will’s feet and licked his bare instep.  Her rough, warm, wet tongue rasped softly, and grounded Will further.  _Little rabbit too fast?  Better luck next time, mutt._   His hands felt steadier, signing to his pack.

He found the throttle lever and picked up his rag, brushing off chaff and bits of grass.  The sun traveled the sky, reaching golden fingers toward the horizon, and the breeze was cooling.  Almost time to go in.  He’d caught a trout this morning.  That and some tomatoes from his garden would do for supper.  He needed to go into town soon for more dog food.  His pack was terrible at catching rabbits, and kibble went fast with six mouths to feed.  If he could get the carboratur done, that would cover a bag or two, and maybe enough left over for another bottle of whiskey.  The one on the table was almost empty, although it had been full yesterday. 

 

The smoky burn at the back of his throat was real, though.  The sun, the dogs, the breeze, the acrid and sweet smells on the wind, the grease on his hands and the prickle on the soles of his feet were real.  He was here and this was now.  Will took a long, deep breath and settled back into the cracked vinyl seat, stretching his legs and rubbing the bit of metal between his fingers.  His heart settled and his mind relaxed.

Then Winston looked up, and started barking.

^^^

Lecter glanced at the file in his hands.  The late afternoon sun was muted through the smoked glass of the Cadillac’s tinted windows, but it gave enough illumination to read by.  He simply wasn’t that interested yet.  “Mr. Graham has not given his consent to my reading this, has he, Agent Crawford?”  It was as good an excuse as any.  He was only here as a favor to Dr. Bloom, whom he had been cultivating for quite some time, since her graduate school days.

“No, but you should know what you’re getting into before we get to Wolf Trap.  Alana Bloom speaks highly of you, but Will Graham may prove a challenge for a number of reasons.  We need his help in Minnesota, and I need you to convince him, but it won’t be easy.”  Jack Crawford was a huge man, physically intimidating and not averse to using that to his advantage.  Now though, he was putting an effort into being affable and convincing.  Lecter was amused, even charmed, to be courted so.

“Why won’t it be easy, Agent Crawford?  I should think he would be eager to help.”  Lecter folded his hands over the manila folder, resisting the slowly growing urge to pick out the secrets there for himself, and enjoying the game.  He intended to help, but let Jack wheedle a bit.  It would do his pride good.

Crawford blew air out of his nose, the corners of his mouth pursing a bit with impatience.  “If you would read the file, Doctor Lecter….”

“Without patient consent, it would be unethical, as you well know.  It might be best if we return to Quantico after all.”

“No, no,” Crawford said hurriedly, and Lecter could see the man tamping down his irritation.  “All right.  To start with, he’s deaf and doesn’t speak.  Or read lips, I’m told.  Dr. Bloom said you sign?”

“A bit.  British Sign Language, which has many similarities with your ASL.  I was under the impression Mr. Graham was a police detective, in New Orleans I believe Alana said.   When did he lose his hearing?”  The file was growing warmer in his lap, and his fingers were starting to itch with the desire to flip through it.

“Five years ago, in the course of an investigation.”

Lecter held close an expression of professional concern and interest, a default arrangement of features practiced and perfected over the years. He’d copied it from a nurse he’d seen once.  Her caring attitude and professional demeanor in A and E had spared her once from becoming dinner, and he’d never forgotten.  “The details are in the file, then?”  He tapped it.  “He has not spoken, you said.  This implies he is choosing not to?  Or is there a physical impediment of some kind?”  In a moment he would ‘overcome’ his professional reticence and plumb the file for its promised pain.  Such delicious despair must be therein.  Lecter was almost salivating; his interest had been piqued.

“There is no physical reason, no.  His vocal cords work just fine, and there was no brain damage the doctors could point to.” 

The sun was going down, casting the interior of the car into twilight along with the outside dusk.  That would make temptation easier to avoid.  One taste, though.  Lecter opened the file and saw a photograph of the young man, bruises marring his face, and tiny wounds around his mouth, barely scabbed over.  A photograph from the hospital, taken shortly after his arrival no doubt.  Forensic records.  “He was traumatized by the incident,” Lecter assumed.  “Or the physicians missed something.”

Crawford shook his head.  “Read the file.  We’re almost there.  I don’t want to bias my case any further, Doctor Lecter.  We need him on this one.  Eight girls are missing, and he was one of the best profilers in the field, on a fast track to the FBI before his….”  The agent paused, and shook his head.  “He had some amazing insights.  Dr. Bloom feels he is too fragile to bring in on this, but I need him.  I want him.  I need you to get him for me.”

The image of the face filled his mind. A pale face, fine boned and topped with a dirty fall of black curls.  Black stubble over bruises old and new, and grey-blue eyes which did not quite meet the gaze of the camera.  They had gazed over Lecter’s shoulder, and he wondered what they had seen.

Will Graham had been taken by the monsters, it seemed, and lived to tell the tale.  Or not.  Lecter wondered what he, a monster himself, would see when those eyes met his.  And what Will Graham would see.  

Lecter closed the file.  “If he breaks, it is because he is brittle.  I don’t think a brittle man could survive what he has.  Let’s see what we can do.”

Tbc

 

 


	2. ....I've come to talk with you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what I have read, there is no use of being verbs in sign.

Chapter 2

A dark car was rolling down the dirt road toward the house.  The shadows from the beeches fell long across the car, a big Cadillac that said “Agency” to Will.  CIA or FBI, some government motor pool had disgorged it and would soon swallow it up again.  He sipped a finger of whiskey and thumbed the safety back on his Sig, tucking the weapon under an oiled rag, in reach for safety but out of sight for convenience.  Whoever was in that car was also armed, and had a badge to back it.  Will didn’t want to make them nervous, even if his own heart was still pounding with reaction to the car’s sudden appearance.

Winston, for all he was a stray, was a good service dog.  He barked once, then nuzzled Will’s hand and looked up at him to make sure Will had gotten the message.  _Good boy.  Company._ Will fished a liver treat from his pocket and palmed it to the dog as a reward.  Finishing the glass, Will wiped his hands on an oily rag and waited for whoever was in the car to come out.  His hands were trembling again.  He clenched them to stillness and considered pouring another shot of courage.  The rest of the dogs sprang up and started running across the grass, to greet the newcomers.

The car coasted to a halt just short of the lead dog, a terrier mix.  After a moment, two men emerged and stood beside the car, looking up toward the house.  The bigger of the two turned and said something, and started walking to Will’s door, wading through milling canines.  The other, slightly smaller and slighter and fair of hair and skin, looked around first.  He stood next to the car, no expression on his face, and took in the house and barn, the ragged yard, and the small pack of dogs which was energetically asking for attention.  After a long minute, he reached down and started giving Tiny a belly rub.

Will was impressed, and somewhat comforted.  Tiny was a big dog, a Rottweiler-Pitt Bull mix, and most people saw her and started backing away.  This guy was crouching down, using both hands to scratch, and had started smiling at the way the huge dog wiggled in ecstasy.  

The other man was knocking on the door, looking irritated.  Will was torn between hiding back in the trees and coming forward to see what the hell the two wanted.  His hands had stopped shaking altogether; watching the fair-haired fellow pet Tiny had eased his mind and he was almost willing to be civil.  Before he could make up his mind, however, the bigger man turned and spotted Will.  He said something to his companion and waved to Will, coming down the steps.

Will sighed.  Nothing for it now but to greet his unwanted guests.  He tucked the Sig in the back waistband of his jeans, checking the safety first, and dug in his pocket for his pad and pen.  He scrawled ‘What do you want?’ as the two men approached, and waited.  The fair-haired one reached him first, and Will held out the pad.  The man took it, and read, then handed the paper to the taller man.

His hands now free, the fair man raised his hands and said, _I sign.  My {something}  not. Name is Hannibal Lecter._ The signs were hesitant, and Will didn’t understand the sign used to indicate the other man, but the rest was clear, and the man signed his name slowly enough that Will caught every letter.  Considerate.  Will was impressed.  Lecter indicated the other man and said, _Agent Jack Crawford.  F.B.I.  He want talk you._

Will shrugged.  _Why?_  

Lecter turned and spoke to the agent, who spoke to Lecter and then gestured toward Will.  Lecter made a moue of irritation and gestured from Crawford to Will, clearly telling the man to speak to Will himself.   The patience Will had been harboring up until that point abruptly vanished.   The breeze was picking up as evening drew on, and Will shrugged into his shirt, draped over the back of his work chair.  He buttoned up the blue flannel and rolled up the sleeves, and started walking toward the house leaving the men behind him.  If the agent couldn’t bring himself to talk to Will directly, he could go to hell.  They had not been invited, and Will didn’t want them here, whatever the FBI wanted with him.  Will had broken ties with law enforcement five years ago.

A hand caught his shoulder.  His heart racing, Will ducked-grabbed-whirled-pushed away and stumbled back, his hand scrabbling at the butt of his Sig.  Two men in the gathering gloom, in the shade of the beech tree, reaching toward him, reaching to grab, to hold, to hurt.  He brought up his weapon and aimed at the bigger one, sitting on his ass in the dirt and starting to get up, and clicked off the safety.

Both figures went still, mouths moving, hands up.  Will blinked, his aim unwavering, and took deep breaths of smoky, hay-sweet air.  Grassy prickles under his feet.  His dogs.  The barn.  The beeches.  The bite of whiskey on his tongue.  Home.  Safe. 

The smaller man, Lecter, was signing.  It was awkward, but Will saw _safe_ and _no hurt_ and _put gun down please._ Fumbling the safety back on, Will gritted his teeth on curses which would never feel the air, and bent over, resting his hands on his knees.  Winston came up and licked his face, and reached up a paw to shake.  _Good boy._

Will looked up and recognized the men again, and stood, showing the gun and setting it down on his work table.  He tapped his chest with his fist, _Sorry._  He dried his palms on his jeans and took one shaky step away from the Sig, to show the probably armed agent he wasn’t a risk.  _No grab, ok?_

Lecter nodded.  The agent stood and went over to the table, scooping up the Sig and checking the safety.  He looked at Will from under beetled brows, then reversed it and handed it to him, butt first.  “Sorry.  You ok?”  The mouth movements were exaggerated enough that even Will, who had never mastered lip-reading, could tell the meaning.  Will shook his head and rocked his hand left and right.  So so. 

The light was getting worse.  What Will wanted more than anything was to invite these men to the road and go inside and make some supper and get drunk enough to sleep.  What he did, however, was gesture toward the house.  _Come in?  Hungry?  I cook fish._

^^^

The house was homely, scruffy and warm and smelling of dog.  Lecter schooled his expression to open curiosity and didn’t let the distaste he felt in these unsanitary surroundings show on his face.  The dogs followed them in and milled around, finding spots on the rug to lounge while Graham moved back to the kitchen, beckoning Lector and Crawford to follow.  He pointed to chairs pulled up to a scarred wooden table and said, _I cook you talk._

It was a small kitchen, but clean and brightly lit, with no dog hair in sight.  Will washed his hands, scrubbing with some harsh soap to remove all traces of motor oil, and motioned for Crawford to begin.

“I’m here to ask for your help, Mr. Graham,” the agent began.  “Eight girls have been abducted from eight Minnesota campuses in the last eight months and we need your help to find them.  A ninth was found dead in a field, mounted on the head of a stag.”  He waited for Lecter to translate, then continued, “All of the missing girls were abducted on a Friday so they wouldn’t have to be reported missing until Monday. Now, however he’s covering his tracks, he needs a weekend to do it.  They tagged the eighth girl, Elsie Nichols, two hours ago.”

Graham took three fish out of the elderly refrigerator and placed them in the sink, turning on the water and washing them thoroughly before transferring them to a cutting board.  _Why me?_ _Heimlich at Harvard. Bloom at Georgetown. They do same I do._ He took up a thin, and to Lecter’s judgment, very sharp knife and gutted the fish with deft motions.  This done, he rinsed them and set them aside to begin heating a frying pan.  Cast iron, Lecter noted with approval.  It would be a simple meal, but well prepared.

“He says there are two other fellows who could help.  Heimlich and Bloom?  Is that our Alana he means?” Lecter asked.  Will dredged the fish in cornmeal and set them in the pan.  The fish sizzled in the quiet room, and the air turned aromatic with the smell of frying and onions.  His mouth began to water.  He’d been planning on a simple fillet tonight, carved from a noisome and egregious sous chef, but the fish smelled divine.  He turned back to Will and said, _You catch fish?_

 _This morning.  River back of property.  Trout.  You like fish?_  

Lecter smiled.  _Eat yes.  Catch no._   Will laughed at this.  It was a silent laugh, all breath and no sound.

“What’s so funny?” Crawford asked, irritation in his voice.  Will laughed again, seeing the agent’s confusion.  That seemed to anger the man, and Lecter put a hand on his arm to get his attention.

“Deaf people are frequently left out of conversations, Agent Crawford.  I think Mr. Graham finds it amusing to put the shoe on your foot.  He was merely asking if I liked to fish.”  Hannibal turned back to Graham and said, _Agent worried about girl.  Sorry.  You help?_

“Let’s get back on track, gentlemen,” Crawford said, not catching the signs.  “I need to know if you will come to Minnesota and help us catch this guy before any other girls disappear.  Heimlich and Bloom can’t do what you do.  You had a unique way of seeing, getting inside these people’s minds.  I need your imagination working on this, Will.  These girls need your help.”

It was an impassioned plea.  Lecter tried his best to convey it convincingly.  It would be interesting to go to Minnesota and watch another monster at work.  If he could convince Graham to go, Hannibal would surely go along as translator, having established this rapport with the clearly unstable deaf man.  The way he had rounded on Crawford had been a delight of panicked motion and desperate counter-attack.  He had clearly not been seeing anything but foes at that moment, and Lecter wasn’t sure Crawford realized how very close he had come to being shot dead.  Murder had been in Will Graham’s eyes and mayhem in his intent.  But his self-control had snapped back too quickly, and Lecter had been both impressed and disappointed. 

There was tension again in the young man’s movement, and a fine sheen of sweat on his scarred upper lip.  _I not help you.  I not help me.  Fish done soon.  You go after._   He turned, then, and went out the back door, into the night.

“What the hell did you say to him, Dr. Lecter?” Crawford demanded.  He rose to follow, but Hannibal restrained him with a touch, and he sat back down.

“Only what you said, to my limited ability.  BSL is somewhat different from ASL, and neither is based on my native language.  I feel he understood.  His parting words indicated he felt he could help your missing girls no more than he could help himself, and he invited us to leave after supper.  Which implies we are welcome to stay until then.  You will have another chance to appeal.”  At Crawford’s sour expression, Lecter added, “If he didn’t want to be convinced, Mr. Graham would have asked us to leave immediately.  Take heart, Agent Crawford.”

Indeed, moments later Will returned, holding three bright red tomatoes and a handful of dirty lettuce and carrots.  He dumped all of his produce in the sink and began scrubbing the soil from the young roots.  The short intermezzo had allowed the young man to regain some composure.  He looked over at Lecter and raised dripping hands.  _You cook?_

Lecter smiled and held up his hand, pinching a short distance between thumb and forefinger.  Will smiled tightly and held out a peeler.

The two worked silently, almost nudging hips in the tiny kitchen, while Crawford fumed.  The salad came together under Lecter’s hands, the fresh tomatoes singing their sweet and tart song of sun and rain, and the lettuce tearing crisp and wet under his fingers.  Lecter could glimpse the small garden through the kitchen window, fenced and lush in Virginia’s early growing season.  The plants were young yet, with the carrots small and pale and the tomatoes just past green, but all without blemish.  He carved tomato roses and garnished the bowl with radish flowers.  The fish were perfect, sweet and flaking.

Only the plating left something to be desired, but he forgave Will that even as the younger man scooped the fried trout directly from the frying pan onto three waiting and mismatched dishes and cut some lemon slices over the top.  “Smells good,” Crawford said, reluctantly.  “If you two are done playing Suzy Homemaker, can we get back to why we’re here?”

“After we eat, Jack,” Hannibal admonished.  “I abhor discussing matters of such indelicacy at table.  It is very rude.”

“I don’t have time to be polite, Doctor. There is a girl missing.  She may soon be dead.  And we’ll never know because we’ll never find her without Will Graham.”

The man in question rapped once on the table, getting their attention.  Then he held up his right hand and drew one finger across it in a sharp downward motion.  _What?  More girl? I said no. Cannot help.  Eat. Go away._

 _I think you can help, if you let yourself, Will.  I think you are afraid.  What are you afraid of, Will?_ Hannibal slipped into regular grammar.  It was easier than trying to remember all the rules of ASL.  He spoke as he signed, to allow Crawford in on the conversation _.  “_ I will be there, and Agent Crawford.  You have nothing to fear but your own thoughts.”

Graham set down his fork.  He clenched his hands and looked away from the other men.  Lecter put a hand gently on the corded and tanned arm, and felt it jerk beneath his touch.  It was like touching a live electric wire, humming with suppressed energy, but he let his hand settle firmly and he squeezed gently to get the other’s attention.  Reluctantly, Will looked back at Hannibal.  He disengaged from Lecter’s grip and said, _Who you, anyway?  You translate bad and you not FBI.  Why you here?_

Lecter let his mouth twist in a small smile.  _Psychiatrist.  Jack thinks you a fragile teacup._ He took a bit of the succulent fish and let his face show his appreciation.  He did not translate what he had said for Jack’s benefit, which Will noted.

The silence lengthened.  Jack fumed.  Will did not eat.  Hannibal enjoyed the fresh-caught brook trout and new carrots and waited for the answer he knew would come.

Finally, Will said, looking from Jack to Hannibal, _Who will feed dogs?_

 

_TBC_


	3. About a vision softly creeping...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmare, then more nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some gore here, and body horror.

**His head ached.  His face throbbed.  His ears screamed and hummed with impossible pain.  The dark silence was suffocating.  He mapped his prison with mittened hands which shook and clenched in their bindings.  A closet, no knobs, no way out.  He would have shouted, but his lips had been sewn shut.**

**The smell of urine was pervasive, and the stink of his own waste made him glad his stomach was empty.  His tongue felt like leather and he had stopped sweating.  He drew up his legs, pressing back into the un-soiled corner, and tried to count days.  No light, no time, nothing since he had awakened here to tell him of time’s passage.  It might have been a day, or three.  Not more than that, since he had not had water in this blind and silent hell.**

**Air moved, and there was a vibration in the walls.  His sight turned an orange pink, and he tried to open his eyes, but the lids wouldn’t budge.  He could feel warmth on his face, and he pressed further into his corner.  Hard hands grasped his hair and forced him, stumbling, into an open area of infinite space and dead silence.  Hunger and thirst weakened him, but he swung his hands forward, hoping to connect, to push or pull away.  The hand released his hair, and then both of his arms were caught, pinned, and locked in place behind his back.**

**Stumbling, mewling through his tethered lips, he was pulled and pushed.  Trembling, he was stripped to his skin.  Hands, now gentle, eased him forward, and he felt tile beneath his feet.  Warm water cascaded over him, and he was washed from hair to feet.  He could feel himself blushing, and he tried to crouch, to pull in, but the hands turned hard again and he was pulled upright with pinches and slaps.  Roughly toweled, he was prodded back out and then pushed into a chair, his arms secured to the ladder-back pressing into his spine.**

**When the tube went up his nose, he tried to twist away, but his hair was caught and held again.  The stiff plastic scraped the inside of his nostril and he felt, tasted blood trickle down the back of his throat.  Then the tube, probing, pushing through, following the blood down his gullet.  He made himself swallow, terrified that it would go down his trachea and into his lungs.  He gagged, gulped, and felt the tears leaking out of the side of his eyes, at the corners where the glue didn’t catch.  They stung his lips as they dripped down, tickling through the thickening hair on his face.**

**It went in for hours, miles of hard plastic, and his nose dripped warm onto his lips.  The air vibrated, and a soft hand stroked his face, brushing away the tears, the blood, and the snot.  He felt a cold circle of metal on his abdomen, felt the bubble of air, like a caught burp, and then tape was tacked onto his nose, holding the tube in place.**

**A moment later, he could feel cold through the plastic, and his aching stomach filled.  He swallowed and swallowed and prayed he would not vomit.  He would drown if he did.  He would have screamed, but he had no mouth.**

Warm touch on his arm, shaking.  Light against his eye lids.  Will opened his eyes and pulled away from the touch, reaching for his Sig and not finding it and backing away only to find himself caught by a soft seat and a seatbelt.  He shoved at the hands, and scrabbled at the restraint, coming up hard against a curving wall.  The floor beneath his feet was vibrating and the colors were bright and close.  The air smelled stale.  Hands moved before his eyes, motions that slowly translated into meaning.  _Easy.  OK.  Easy, Will.  Safe.  Plane.  Flying.  Stewardess afraid.  Nightmare.  Easy.  Safe._

The hands belonged to Dr. Lecter.  Will focused on the man’s calm face and took gulps of air, easing back down into his seat.  He didn’t want to look at the stewardess or the other passengers, to see the looks of disgust or amusement, or pity worst of all.  He brushed sweaty hair out of his eyes, and rubbed angrily at his streaming eyes.  He tapped his fist against his chest once, twice.  _Sorry.  Sorry._

There was no pity in Lecter’s eyes, only calm interest.  _No sorry.  Ok now?  Bad dream._

 _Bad dream,_ Will replied, with emphasis.  He ventured a glance around and twitched a smile at the uncertain stewardess, before looking back out the window.  He could see Dr. Lecter’s face in the glass, ghosting over the impossibly white clouds, and it was blank and neutral and non-judgmental.  After a long moment, Lecter looked away, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.  The rest of the flight passed slowly.  Will blinked rarely; the dark was too close.

They touched down, and Jack met them at the baggage check to drive them out to the house of Elsie Nichols’ parents.  According to the FBI’s notes, which Will had poured over the night before, the girl had been meant to stay over the weekend she was abducted, feeding the family cat and keeping an eye on the house.  When her parents returned on Monday, the house was empty and their daughter missing.  The local FBI field office had noted the girl’s resemblance to their other missing and passed the case on to the BAU, and to Jack Crawford’s attention.

The BAU had tried profiling the serial abductor, and presumed killer, after the third disappearance, but with no evidence to be found, had drawn a blank, apart from the assumption that he was male, white, between 30 and 50 years of age, and had a car.  The faces of the girls filled Will’s mind as they drove through the evening.  All young, dark haired, and pretty in an All-American kind of way.  Not too athletic, not too chubby.  At the cusp of adulthood, and now forever held in stasis.  Never to move forward, to achieve maturity.  Never to move on in life.  Caught in amber.

Will clenched his hands together, tense over the folder in his lap.  Across the back seat, Lecter looked over at him.  _OK?_

Irritably, Will replied, his motions short and abrupt.  _Wish you stop asking.  Not OK.  Not ok here, now, ever.  Me here stupid.  Girls dead.  Not want tell her parents.  Fuck Crawford._ He folded his arms and looked out the window.  Lecter looked back at him in the glass.  Will dropped his eyes, hunching into his jacket. 

Lecter’s reflection said, _You do not like eyes, do you, Will?  Elsie might not be dead.  You could save her.  Is that not worth this effort?_

Will sighed, his breath clouding the window and blocking out the other man’s reflection.  He shifted back around in his seat.  _Girls all same.  He kills same girl each time.  He not killing the one he want to kill, or he stop.  Why?_

After a long moment, Lecter crossed both arms over his chest.  _Love._

^^^

Hannibal watched Will move around the room, looking at pictures of the missing girl, avoiding the conversation with the frightened parents.  Crawford handled them deftly, like the administrator he was, teasing out details of Elsie Nichols’ life and last days, presuming Will was right and the girl was dead.  On the whole, Hannibal thought she was.  There was a finality to these disappearances. If the girls were being held, why would he need to take more?  And if not held, their continued absence screamed death.

A gray tabby rubbed against Lecter’s leg, leaving behind a scattering of fur on the dark wool.  Will’s darting eyes followed the motion, and he said, almost absently, _How was cat?  Hungry?_

“Will asks if the cat was hungry, when you came home Monday,” Lecter said, breaking into the insipid conversation at the dinner table.  Mrs. Nichols, a middle-aged hausfrau, looked to her husband in confusion.  “Was it acting strangely?” Hannibal elaborated.  Clearly not, by their baffled expressions.

Waving Crawford and Lecter toward him, Will said, tight and urgent, _She here.  Weekend.  He take here._

Crawford cursed softly and drew out his phone, locking down the house and calling for a forensic team.  Lecter tuned out the horrified moaning of the parents and watched Will, who was watching the cat.  Following the cat.  Following the cat upstairs and down a short hall, and now Hannibal could smell it.  Blood, bowel, sweat, and decay.  Elsie had come home.

He watched as Will opened the door to Elsie’s room, and thrilled to see him make the same conclusion.  Will recoiled, his hand to his mouth, and collided with Lecter.  The younger man’s eyes were wide and wild, but only for an instant.  Lecter held his gaze, held his arms, as Graham took deep, silent breaths and slowly regained his calm.  Finally, Will took a step back and said, _Get Jack._

With a nod, Lecter did so.  This was delightful.  He was having a wonderful time.  Perhaps this liaison with the FBI would prove a worthwhile diversion after all.  He pasted on a look of consternation and ran down the stairs, calling urgently.  The father had to be restrained from going in to his dead daughter.  The mother wept silently.  Hannibal wondered if she had breastfed Elsie, her only daughter, her only child.  He watched as the family fell apart together, and he sipped at the pain.  Delicious.


	4. ...but my words like silent raindrops fell.

The investigation surged forward.  This was the second girl found, and the FBI forensic team was all over the body, desperate for any clue.  Lecter had reluctantly returned home to Baltimore when they arrived back in Virginia, citing patients and responsibilities, and Will perforce found himself in a very confusing place.  The three forensic specialists, a woman and two men, moved and spoke too quickly for Will’s poor lip reading skills to make out anything.  Crawford promised to take him home as soon as possible, but for now he was stuck in the corner of the lab.  Too much space around him, too full of silence.  Will folded his arms and tried to stay out of the way.

He loves these girls.  Loves what, who they represent.  Who do they represent?  All alike, all young and dark haired and dark eyed.  Not mother, not friend.  Not girlfriend.  Sorry.  He’s sorry.  Sorry for this one.  His thoughts tumbled over and over, and his hands started moving, echoing, beating his breast.

A dark shaped loomed in front of him and Will jerked back, colliding with a metal wall.  He ducked his head, and looked up at Crawford, who was holding out a pad of paper.  The big man hesitantly raised a fist and tapped his own chest.  _Sorry._   He must have seen Will do that a hundred times by now, and either assumed or remembered the sign’s meaning.  Will flinched a smile and nodded acknowledgement, then took the pad.

In a scrawling print, he read, “What are you saying?  I know the sign for ‘love’ and ‘sorry’.  What are you thinking?”

Tapping the pad with Jack’s pen, Will tried to gather his racing thoughts, and then wrote, “I think he put Elsie back because he’s sorry he took her.  He’s apologizing.  She wasn’t what he needed.”

Jack’s face went into a scowl as he read this, and he looked up at Will in confusion.  Almost illegibly, Will read,  “What do you mean?  Why was he sorry for Elsie and not the others?  What about the girl in the field?  He left her out for the crows.  He ripped out her lungs, for God’s sake!”

“What’s different about Elsie?”

 Crawford read that, and then turned and shouted something to his team.  They moved into more directed movement, mouths moving quickly, hands more quickly.  The woman, Beverly Katz, pointed to something in the abdominal cavity, and Jack pulled Will with him as he went over to see whatever she was talking about.

The smell of blood and shit was almost overpowering this close, and Will pulled against Crawford’s grip, tugging his arm free.  He stayed near, though, and made himself look.  After a moment, he tapped the pad still in Jack’s hand.  _What?  What say?_

The blond tech finger-spelled.  _C-a-n-c-e-r._  Beverly looked impressed.  The man, Jimmy, shrugged.  He spelled, laboriously, _l-e-a-r-n-e-d  w-h-e-n  I  w-a-s  a  k-i-d._

  Liver cancer.  And the other girl’s lungs removed.  Will felt his gorge rise.  He took the pad from Jack and wrote, “He’s eating them.”  Then he stumbled to a trash can and vomited sour bile and airport coffee.

^^^

The farmhouse rose out of the mist, solitary and ethereal.  Hannibal rolled down his window to let in the night noises.  Dogs were barking in the distance, and every light in the old house was on, spilling out into the dark.  The stars were bright, this far from the light pollution of the city, and he turned off the headlights to enjoy them better.  There was no movement inside, no shadowed deaf man crossing in front of windows.  It was possible that Graham was asleep, but Hannibal doubted it.  He had the impression that dear Will slept neither easily nor well at the best of times.

 Shutting off the engine, Hannibal gathered up his offering for the hounds and walked up the drive.  A shrill whistle, however, stopped him before he’d gone a dozen paces.  He looked around, and was nearly bowled over by the monstrous Rottweiler mix.  The beast jumped and barked with enthusiasm, playful and annoying.  Lecter pushed it away and pulled a length of sausage, the remainder of the sous chef with a bit of unctuous librarian thrown in along with the sage and onion, and tossed it away from him.  The dog followed, bounding like the idiot it was.

A man-shaped shadow came through the mist, forming into Will Graham.  _Not ask ok._   The signs were hard to see in the dark, but Will signed broadly.  _Jack sent you? I not come back.  Done._

Will Graham was a small man, slight of height and build.  His feet were bare, despite the slight bite in the air, and his dark hair was messy and tangled.  His jeans were muddy at the cuff, the knees caked, and his arms were naked and scratched.  His pack of mixed strays gamboled at his feet, as strangely silent as the man himself.  He reminded Hannibal of pictures of Pan he’d seen in the Louvre, wild and sad and feral. 

_Why are you walking alone in the dark?  It is after midnight._

Will shrugged.  _I see my house in mist, like a boat.  Feel safe._

 _Boat?_  Hannibal parceled out the rest of the sausage, taking an inner delight as always in feeding people to animals.  _Why boat?_

 _My father fixed boats.  I went with him on water.  Him and me.  Felt safe.  Nothing could get me._ Will rubbed his arms and then patted his leg, calling the pack to him.  _Sleep now.  Thanks come me._ He hesitated, then switched to pidgin sign, seeing Hannibal’s confused expression.  _Thank you for coming to check on me.  I am fine.  Tell Jack not to worry.  I am fine, but I am done._

 _Jack is not the only one to worry,_ Hannibal said, and followed Will onto the porch.  _You have had a number of shocks today, and yesterday.  Uncle Jack has forced you to see a great many horrors in a very short time.  Even someone without your history would be shaken._

 _My history?  Jack told you my history?  You read my case file?_ Will’s gestures were short and sharp, angry.  His eyes wouldn’t meet Lecter’s, but darted around the porch, into the house, into the night. 

Trying to draw this out, Lecter sat on the porch swing, making himself less threatening.  Will had a savor.  Damaged, but fighting.  Broken, but not brittle.  Terrified of everything, and daring to engage with the world despite that, for the sake of the daughters of strangers.  Will was a dish Hannibal had rarely supped, and his appetite was piqued.  _No.  He offered.  I refused.  He said you had been injured in the line of duty.  That is all.  The rest I see with my own eyes. The scars around your mouth and wrists, and the patterns of your flinches._

Graham went completely still.  His face was inscrutable, half in shadow and half-lit by the lights shining through the farmhouse’s windows.  At his knee, Winston whined and panted, nudging the clenched fist, begging for a pat.  Hannibal resented the dog in that instant, for showing the empathy Will needed at that moment.  Hannibal didn’t want to feel empathy for this man.  He wanted to feel him break, to see him drive himself to the fracture point, to see what would happen.  Lecter held out a fragment of sausage, and tempted the animal away, leaving Will to stand alone on the peeling boards.

 _My flinches,_ Will said at last.  _Good word._   He rubbed his mouth, running the fingertips of his right hand over the tiny scars upper and lower, almost lost under the heavy scruff of his beard.  He opened his mouth wide, as one would when screaming, but no sound emerged.  Just a stretch of lip and face.  Because he could, Hannibal supposed.

 Relaxing, or at least coming to tense rest, Will said, _You do not flinch,_ and he made a sign that looked something like ‘psychiatrist’, but with the fingers of his right hand in an ‘h’.  _You dress fancy and look fancy and never afraid._

Confused, Hannibal held up a hand.  _Wait.  What was that sign?_   He mirrored it back. 

Will looked sheepish.  _Got tired of spelling H-a-n-n-b-a-l all the time.  You mind?_

Feeling an odd sense of happiness, Hannibal shook his head.  _On the contrary, I am touched.  What is your sign-name, may I ask?_

In answer, Will held up the fingers of his right hand in a ‘w’, and then made the sign for ‘dog,’ snapping his fingers twice.  _Alana Bloom gave it me.  For reasons._   Alana’s last name was the sign for flower, Hannibal noted.

That was all wrong.  Hannibal didn’t feel much of anything for Dr. Bloom, apart from a distant sort of professional respect, but she had been pushing Jack all along to keep Will Graham from this investigation.  She had no idea what Will needed, but surely not to be called a dog.  Not something to be called and kept and trained.  He shook his head.  _I do not know the sign, but I would call you by another animal._

Will’s eyebrows lifted, his dour mood from before almost passed.  This was a good diversion, Lecter decided.  Will shut down when his memories crowded close.  They had to be coaxed forward, until they filled Will’s mind, waking and sleeping.  _Spell it.  Make sign._

Trying hard to remember the American letters, subtly different from the British, Hannibal spelled, said, “Mongoose.”

His teeth a sudden shine in the shadows, Will grinned.  He twisted his hand into a ‘w’, and made a sinuous and grabbing motion.  It suited.  The movement of weasel and snake both, and a catch at the end, to symbolize the mongoose catching its prey.  Hannibal nodded and echoed the sign.  _I like.  Jack says you have an eye for the monsters.  I would want you after this one, as a mongoose chases the snakes away from the house._

The light in Will’s eyes faded.  _Monster have eye for me.  I would rather stay far away from the monsters.  One caught me.  Might come back.  Might bring friend._

Did he mean that literally, Lecter wondered.  Was there some magical thinking going on there?  It wouldn’t be uncommon, in victims of violent crime, even when the perpetrator had been apprehended or even killed to harbor a belief that he would return, somehow.  Hannibal made a show of looking apprehensively into the darkness beyond the diffuse rays of porch light.  _Was he not caught?  The man who hurt you?_    The file was out of reach, behind his assumed veil of professional and personal courtesy.  It was remotely possible.

But Will was shaking his head.  _Dead.  I think.  Never saw body.  Felt him go still. Sick after, long time.  Came here._ The younger man’s breath was quickening, and he moved to sit with his back to the house, drawing up his legs and sinking to the boards.  Winston immediately went over and flopped down, his head in Will’s lap.  Without looking over at Lecter, Will began slowly to sign.  The motions were hesitant, almost languid, like a dance.  Hannibal watched intently, swallowing all the beautiful despair.

_He took me from my home.  I was asleep.  I remember smelling something sweet, and then pain.  He put something sharp in my ears.  Glued my eyes shut.  Sewed my mouth.  I never saw him.  Never heard him.  Only felt him.  His hands, his breath._

Will’s hands stuttered to a stop, and he reached down to clench them in Winston’s fur.  He buried his face in the dog’s ruff, inhaling deeply.  He shook his head, still not looking at Lecter.  _No talk,_ he said with shaking, crabbed hands.  _No talk._

“He did not want you to speak.  He wanted to possess you utterly, dear Will,” Hannibal murmured, for only his own ears.  “Your only sensation what he granted you.  No voice to protest.  No ears to hear or eyes to see any comfort, any escape.”

Will’s eyes were wide, now, and dark and staring, lost in time, unseeing.  His too-thin frame shuddered and he wrapped both arms around Winston, rocking, banging his head gently against the wall.

“And so you shut yourself away, where he cannot find you. Alone is safe.  But you will never be safe again, dear Will.  He will always be there, when you close your eyes.”  Those eyes barely blinked, for all they never met anyone else’s.  Dark and silence together too much to bear?  “What are you seeing now, I wonder.”

The chirr of crickets filled the silence that stretched, as Lecter watched and Will stumbled through his mind.  At last, as the hour stretched toward one a.m., Hannibal reached out a hand and began to scratch Winston in tandem to Will’s absent movements.  The dog twisted and licked Will’s wet face, and the younger man drew back with a gasp.  He looked around, touched the porch, lifted a splinter with one nail and worried it free.  Grounding himself in this reality, Lecter realized, and took the shard of wood out of Will’s fingers before he could harm himself with it, however inconsequentially.

Will glanced up at Hannibal, then, and grimaced.  His eyes grazed Lecter’s chin, but went no higher.  He lifted a clenched fist and started to tap his chest, but Hannibal caught it and stilled the motion.

“No need for sorry, Will.  You have been very brave.”  He signed and spoke together, and hoped his meaning wasn’t lost in the dark.

Will laughed his breathy, bitter, soundless laugh.  _Brave,_ he said, taking back his hand and signing with a bitter twist of mouth and fingers.  _Brave man.  Broken man.  Bloom right._

“Doctor Bloom is not right, Will.  You are not broken.  You are strong in the broken places.  You have hidden from your fear for a long time, but you are speaking of it now, overcoming it.”  Lecter kept his tone level, his signing calm and even.  “I think working with Uncle Jack is helping you.”

Will’s darting eyes followed Hannibal’s signs, and his moist brow drew down into a deep frown.  He shook his head and scooted away from Hannibal, then stood and paced to the end of the porch.  His hair was wild from running his hands through it, and he looked wonderfully demented when he turned at last to say, _Do not want  see what I see, Hannibal.  I see girls, dead.  Girls someone he loves.  His daughter.  His child._ Will’s hands were flying, and Winston retreated to the yard, whining and confused.  _She leaving.  He sad.  He kill her last.  Not now, not time yet.  More girls die first.  His design.  Control. Hunt.  Kill.  Eat.  He keep her safe inside._ He stomped over to Hannibal, looming over him, his bare heels thumping.  _Control.  Safe.  Same as me._

Lecter sat forward, catching Will’s eyes at last.  This was fascinating.  “You think the one he truly wishes to kill is his daughter, to consume her, to keep her with him always.  As your abductor wanted with you.”

Will paused, folded his arms around his torso.  His entire body was shaking as he slowly nodded in answer.

“Did he love the one he defiled in the field, then?  He did not consume her.”  Lecter was supremely curious to see that Will made of his own offering to the case.  He’d presented it to Crawford as a spur to his imagination, but it had not taken.  The man was not stupid, but stolid as a block.

Even in the midst of one of the most extreme panic attacks it had ever been Lecter’s delight to have seen, Will Graham made the connection Hannibal had been painting.  _Not same.  Show.  Theatre.  He felt nothing for her, and she was less than nothing to him.  Our cannibal loves women, loves who they represent to him.  He leaves nothing of them to waste.  It would be disrespectful.  Man who killed that girl is copy.  Sadistic psychopath.  Making fun of Jack and the FBI._

Lecter’s mouth twisted in a half-smile, which he hid by turning away to pet the dog.  The mutt was proving useful as a distraction.  Just so.

He rose from the porch seat, then, and put forth all his most persuasive body language.  “It is all the more important, then, that we continue our investigation.  The man’s own daughter is in danger.  We must find him before another girl vanishes.  Will you return to Minnesota with me, Will?”

It would, of course, be far better for Will Graham’s sanity to allow him to remain safe here, in Wolf Trap, surrounded by his canine family and slowly healing of his mental wounds.  Perhaps encourage him to seek counseling with the lovely Dr. Bloom, who already thought the man frail of mind and would be gentle with him.  In time, Will would reconcile his memories and his PTSD would ease.  Therapy and medication would return him to a normal, if silent, life.

That would, however, be so very dull.  Like choosing to eat dry crackers rather than a dish of chicken palliards with pancetta and sage.  The former would fill, but the latter would satisfy.  Will was made for greater things than this pallid existence.  Hannibal felt that he might be falling in love.

He didn’t press further for an answer.  Hannibal coaxed Will inside and fixed him a pot of tea, and sat with him while he slept.  There were nightmares, aided perhaps by the tea (Hannibal’s own recipe), but in the morning Will consented to once again return to Quantico, to see what gems the forensic trio had unearthed.

As it happened, it was a tiny fragment of metal which set them further on their path.  The devil, Hannibal had always found, was in the details.


	5. And echoed in the well of silence.

Mrs. Hobbs lay dying on the porch, her life’s blood pumping and pooling into a sea of congealing gore.  Her eyes were pleading, her hands reaching back toward the dark house.  Will scrabbled at her throat, trying to still the flood, but even as his hands slipped and slid over her skin, the light in her eyes faded and died.  Her straining stilled, and her yearning hand fell to the dirty concrete stoop.  Will looked helplessly up at Lecter, who looked to be shocked to immobility, and drew his Sig.  His hands were slick on the textured handgrip, sticky and stinking copper, and he rose and stumbled through the front door.

Even as he cleared the front hall, Will’s mind raced, more focused than he had been in years.  Why now?  Why escalate so quickly and fatally today, of all days?  Garrett Jacob Hobbs was barely a suspect, just a name with no address and a pale, dark-haired daughter who happened to fit the killer’s profile.  Why had Hobbs leaped forward to his endgame?  Had he known of the investigation?  Heard about a visit from the FBI to his old worksite and panicked?  This was a hunter, not a frightened punk kid.  It made no sense.

There was a faint odor of decay in the house, scented on the dusty air as Will shouldered his way in, clearing every corner and wishing with all his heart for back up.  Lecter was on the phone by now, Will hoped fervently, and would have the sense to keep out of this, safe outside until help arrived.  Will wished he had retained the sense to keep out as well.  Well out and back in Wolf Trap.  But there was a father and daughter somewhere close, and he feared for their future.

He pushed on, heart hammering in his throat, through the complete and absolute silence.  Living room.  Hall.  Dining room.

Hobbs, thin and balding and overworked father, holding his daughter close in a hug.  A glint of metal at her throat.  A knife.  The girl’s face was flushed and wet with tears.  The man’s eyes were sad, desperate.  He clutched her as a drowning man might cling to a floating spar.

Will aimed, shook his head hard, and gestured down for him to drop the knife.

Hobbs’ mouth, moving, stay back who are you stay back.  The girl, weeping in terror.  Hobbs backed them into a corner, and Will wished now that Hannibal was here to talk Hobbs down, the man could talk birds out of trees, talked Will into this kitchen, talked like Satan himself, God Hannibal don’t come in here.

Cornered, like an animal, Hobbs bit.

An arc of blood sprayed from the girl’s slit throat, and Will fired as she fell.  Fired until the gun stopped bucking silently in his hand, its magazine spent. Fired until Hobbs was down, and Will dropped the gun and fell to his knees beside the girl.  His hands, foul with her mother’s blood, with her father’s, slipped and fought again to stop the spurting spray.  He shook his head, heart in his throat, and mouthed words of comfort.  His throat hummed, his lips moved.  “It’s ok.  Help is coming.”  Air pushed out the words, and the terror in the girl’s eyes eased by a fraction of a fraction.

Then Hannibal was at his side, pushing aside his gory hands, clamping with precision.  “I call 911,” he mouthed.  “Help coming.”

In his corner, Hobbs was still dying, still alive. “See,” his lips slurred.  “See.”  Then stillness, and life was gone.

^^^

It was gratifying, Hannibal thought, as he watched young Will’s struggle with Mrs. Hobbs on the porch.  A simple phone call, and the sandcastle began to melt against the waves.  Hobbs might have gone on killing for years, before finally melting down.  Really, he had done Will a favor, spurring the man into action.  Saved the cost of incarceration and trial, not to mention what was turning into a tedious investigation.  Far better to shake the tree and see what fruit fell to the ground.

The woman was dead.  Will’s face was spotted with blood; his hands dripped with it.  He looked up at Hannibal with intent, half-signed something that looked like ‘call’, and ran into the house.

Well, and so Lecter would.  Soon.

With slow steps, savoring every angle of the woman’s final resting place, he approached the Hobbs home.  He could hear movement within.  Good Will doggedly looking for their prey.  The coppery tang of Mrs. Hobbs’ blood overlay another scent, faint and close, of rot.  A rat in the walls, no doubt, if someone asked.  Lecter rather thought otherwise.  His home was kept carefully cleaned and all traces of his dinner guests cleared away.  Modern forensics were so appallingly thorough.

Further in the house, a shout, a question.  A girl was crying.  Then a shot, another, staccato and even.  Then silence.

Now Lecter drew out his phone, now that it was all over but the clean up.

He followed the smells of blood and cordite to the back of the house, and into a tidy little kitchen.  Well, not so tidy now.  Two bodies bled onto the faded linolium.  Will was crouched over one, the girl, trying to stop the blood flowing from her neck.

Softly, then.  “It’s ok.  Help is coming.”  Will’s voice was as cracked and faded as the floor upon which he knelt. 

It was a sweet sound, bittersweet to Hannibal.  On the one hand, Will Graham had taken a huge step forward in his mental healing by allowing himself to speak.  On the other, Hannibal wasn’t quite ready for Will to be healed.  “Well done, Will,” he said at last, to the back of that curly and shaking head.  Then he knelt beside Will on the floor and pressed expert hands to the Hobbs girl’s neck, saving her life.  There was power in sparing life as well as in taking it, Lecter reflected, and who knew what might come of this day.  He was on a new path, now, and he was enjoying himself immensely.

 

Epilogue

Much later, Will fed his dogs, took another shower, and walked barefoot onto his porch.  He had a glass of Jack Daniels in one hand and his Sig in the other.  His dogs were in the yard, lying in the sun, or chasing squirrels, or each other.  There was a tang of smoke in the air, and someone, somewhere, was mowing.  This was real.

He had tended his garden and cleaned his gun, oiling each part and working the mechanism smoothly before loading the clip and setting the safety.  The carburetor was finished and ready to be sold for kibble and whiskey, the next time Will felt like going into town.  The sun filtered down through the beeches, creating a play of light and shadow as the light wind blew the branches.  Before, Will would have closed his eyes and enjoyed the sound of the leaves whispering, and listened to hear thunder in the distance, from the grey clouds on the horizon.  Now he closed his eyes and listened to the silence and felt the sun on his face.  He was home.  This was real.

A cold nose nudged his hand, and Will opened his eyes to see a dark, government issued car rolling down the dirt road to his house.  A cloud of pale dust obscured it momentarily, before blowing past, leaving a smudged patina on the glossy black coat of the Cadillac.  He could see two in the car, one pale and one dark, and he waved a greeting as the pack ran, barking, to tender their own varied, and probably loud welcome.

Two men and, to Will’s surprise, one woman climbed out of the car once it rolled to a stop.  Hannibal Lecter, Jack Crawford, and Dr. Bloom.  Will drained his glass and set in on the porch railing, along with his weapon.  The three approached, Jack in front and Lecter and Bloom behind to either side.  Behind Jack’s back, Hannibal said, _Ambush._ Will laughed, and felt the air tickle through his vocal cords in short, sharp strikes of sound.

Dr. Bloom’s eyes widened in surprise.  _I never hear you before, Will,_ she said, her hands forming the signs slowly and awkwardly.  _You ok?_

Will rolled his eyes in irritation.  He was so sick of having to answer that question.  Dr. Bloom asked it every time she saw him, and it had grown old the second iteration.  He nodded at her and gave her a false and cheery thumbs up.

Signing and speaking together, Lecter said, “He hates being asked that, Alana.  Will is just fine.”  His signs had become much more fluid, Will noted.  Turning back to Will, the older man continued, “Jack has a proposition for you.”

“You don’t have to say yes,” Alana said, glaring at the FBI administrator behind his back.

 _Sounds ominous,_ Will said, adding a shrug.  _What proposition?_

Taking a deep breath, Crawford started speaking.  Lecter translated.  “You did some amazing work on the Hobbs case, Mr. Graham.  The F.B.I. would like to hire you as a consultant on a case by case basis, and in a teaching position.  Nothing too stressful, a class or two a week.  I guarantee we pay better than disability and whatever is left of your pension.  All pending a psych evaluation, of course.”

 _Of course,_ Will said, nodding.  Then he shook his head and said, _No.  Not want anyone in my head._

Crawford went on talking, face intent and brows drawn together in the passion of his plea.

 _Jack is saying now that he needs you, people need you, blah blah,_ Lecter said.  _Jack wants to clear cases and you give results.  These not his words, but truth.  He is correct, though, that you could be more help to society’s victims out in the world, rather than cooped up here.  And I have already been inside your head.  It holds no fear over me._

Bloom punched Hannibal in the shoulder.  Right, she signed.  Not well, but enough to realize Hannibal wasn’t translating accurately.  Will laughed again, and Lecter hid a smile.

 _F.B.I. pay much?_  Will asked.

Crawford nodded, then moved his hand in a so-so gesture.  Well, at  least the man was honest.

Will considered his dogs, his home, and the silence that threatened to drive him mad.  Truth was, Will was bored.  Bored and terrified.  That was the only explanation he could later giver himself for saying, _Lecter does evaluation.  I not drive.  You come here?  I cook.  Ok?_

Hannibal grinned.  “Agreed.  If you will allow me to supplement your larder from time to time with my own ingredients.  I have particular tastes.”

  _We can go see Abigail as well.  Tomorrow._

Dr. Bloom was still talking as the trio left.  Something about _Not ready.  Still fragile.  Keep him safe._

Dear Dr. Bloom, Will thought, hating her more than a little, but understanding her hesitation.  In part, he shared it.  The world was terrifying, Wolf Trap safe.  Will would be risking his life, his health, his sanity.

But then there was Hannibal Lecter.  Will waved from the porch, and Hannibal waved back before climbing once more into the car.  Will felt stronger in his mind and body than had in the last five years.  Maybe what he needed right now was a friend. 

Jumping off of the porch, he whistled and the pack came running.  If Hannibal was coming over for dinner, Will needed to go fishing.

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. Hope you liked. Maybe more in this universe.


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